


Birthday

by girahimu_sama



Series: Post-Canon Thiefshipping Oneshots [3]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M, Thiefshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:31:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girahimu_sama/pseuds/girahimu_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marik's always hated this time of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet I wrote based on this picture (http://girahimu-sama.tumblr.com/post/135879128966/im-late-for-mariks-bday-dec-23rd-but-whatever) I drew.

He lay on his stomach in the dim lighting of the room, a pillow bunched under his head with his face pressed into it, when Bakura appeared at the doorway. He didn't notice him until he spoke, too busy clenching his teeth and trying to ignore the way his scars seared across his backside. It was an old and familiar pain that never seemed to leave, only come and go in waves of varying intensity. Most of the time he was able to ignore it, but not now.

“What's with you, Marik? You haven't come out of this room for like two days.”

Marik suppressed a whimper. Emotionally he felt like someone had scraped out his insides until he was nothing but an empty shell. He felt numb and dead, not even bothering to turn and look at the thief, who stood there with a blanket wrapped around himself to ward off the cold.

“Your brother and sister are worried about you because you haven't been returning their messages. They phoned me instead.” Bakura sounded annoyed, but when Marik offered no response at all, not even a snappy remark, his tone became more serious. “Marik...?”

Marik turned his head to the side slightly, so that he could speak without his words being swallowed by the pillow.

“Please, just go away.”

Bakura didn't of course. Marik groaned and shoved his face back down. He knew he'd shut himself away for more than a socially acceptable time. He couldn't get away with it forever.

“Look, I'm not one to press when something's wrong. I left you alone because I got the idea that something was bothering you. If you need your space, just say so, but you've just been... laying here.” Bakura drew closer to the bed, but hesitantly. “It's... not like you. Have I done something to piss you off?”

“No.” Marik finally raised his head as he heard soft footsteps move to the left of the bed. Bakura was peering down at him curiously. “It's not about you.”

A bolt of pain shot down his spine and he winced, clenching his eyes shut and rolling onto his side. His ribs were starting to get sore from lying on his stomach anyway. He curled in on himself, gritting out through his teeth. “My birthday is in less than a week.”

Bakura suddenly looked awkward, shifting his feet a little and looking anywhere else. “Oh... umm, I'm sorry, I didn't know.”

Had he the energy, Marik would have rolled his eyes. “It's not like that. I dread this time of the year.”

Bakura fell silent, seemingly thinking, reaching for a scrap of something in his memory. “Wasn't this when you got the...?”

“Yes.” Marik answered. “My scars always seem to burn a little more around this time.”

There was silence, and then the bed sank a bit under the weight of a second body sitting on it.

“Do you want me to leave or...?”

Marik gave a barely audible sob. He felt so helpless, like he did when he was a child, and he didn't want Bakura to see him like this. But it wasn't like they hadn't seen each other at their worst already, and he'd already spent over forty eight hours isolating himself.

“No.”

Bakura moved over to lie on the bed next to him, propping himself against the headboard. The only comfort he offered with soundless empathy – Marik knew he didn't want to intrude, and wouldn't initiate anything unless Marik started it first. When his scars got sensitive like this, touch from anyone or anything felt like sandpaper. A mere brush could send him back into the tombs, writhing on top of the stone tablet as his father carved the Pharaoh's memory into his back. Over the years he'd gotten better with it, but for some reason this time of the year left him unbearably vulnerable.

It didn't stop him from dragging himself up to drape himself over the other male. He encircled his arms around Bakura's middle, burying his face in his shirt and inhaling the slight trace of detergent. The thief reached over to pull the blanket over both of them, his hands then going to Marik's hair. Bakura's fingers fanned out, combing through the strands in such a way that it made Marik forget this was the spirit who had once tried to unleash the ultimate darkness on the world. They rarely were gentle like this, which made the occasion that much more poignant.

Bakura's hands found their way under the collar of his shirt, pausing at the top of his back in a silent request for permission. Marik nodded once, sighing as the warmth of Bakura's palms smoothed over his scars. If it were anyone else Marik would have frozen up or lashed out, but he only relaxed under the thief's touch. The light massage soothed the pain from his muscles, and small waves of bliss washed over him. But it was purely physical. The emotional wounds ran much deeper.

“My mother... died giving birth to me,” he managed out, his voice a pitiful croak. “And it also marks the day I... I k-killed... my father...”

Goddammit, he hated the way he was stammering, but he couldn't keep his breathing steady.

“And I'm supposed to celebrate on the day I killed them both?”

Marik reached up to wipe away the tears collecting in his eyes. He felt Bakura press his lips to the top of his head. The thief said nothing, however, merely allowing the other to vent his sorrow without judgement.

“It always h-hurts so much every year. I can't just... I try to forget but...” He heaved a sob, his words dissolving into soundless crying. Bakura didn't tell him it would be okay – he didn't do platitudes, and Marik appreciated it. He didn't want mindless comfort and reassurance, he wanted understanding.

“Are you not going to tell me to try and move on and make the best of my birthday and not wallow in my own guilt?” He asked when he was coherent enough to speak again. Ishizu was more insistent about it than Rishid was. Marik knew isolation wasn't good for him, but he couldn't just pick himself up and go and see his friends to celebrate. It wasn't that easy.

“Why the hell would I do that?” Bakura grunted sourly. “Whatever dumbass thinks you should deal with your grief by just ignoring it when it clearly bothers you can go get fucked.”

Despite himself, Marik couldn't help but smile. “Thanks.”

“For what, having common sense?” Bakura leaned his head back, fingers absently carding through Marik's hair. “Sometimes you can't deal with things by pretending everything is alright.”

Marik nestled his cheek further into Bakura's chest, no longer crying now, just thinking.

“Yeah... I've learned that the hard way.”

 

 

 


End file.
